


A Smile Is For Sinking Your Teeth In

by hilaryfaye



Series: A Quick Bite [1]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4849397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilaryfaye/pseuds/hilaryfaye





	A Smile Is For Sinking Your Teeth In

Admittedly, it was not one of his finer nights. Harasawa only came to locations like these when he was looking for a quick bite, nothing he had to work too hard for. The air was smoky and thick enough with the smell of alcohol a person could almost get drunk just sitting there. Hang around in a place like that and soon enough, dinner falls into your lap, smiling and all too pleased to be there.

That night, he thought, he was exceptionally lucky. The first person who approached him was a university student, hardly a whiff of alcohol on him (Harasawa liked them less, when he could taste the alcohol) and the kind of smile that made impressionable people believe it was meant only for them. He chatted with Harasawa for a while, made a show of leaning in close to talk to him. He had a pleasant smell, a warm pulse thrumming quietly under his skin. “You don’t look like you come around here, often.”

“I don’t.”

He introduced himself, said his name was Imayoshi. He touched Harasawa’s wrist, smiled like he must have won a thousand hearts that way. “Forgive me if this doesn’t seem like your kind of place, but maybe you’d like to go somewhere quieter?”

He’d learned some time ago (longer than he liked to recall) that it was good manners to give them a particular smile before he went anywhere alone with someone. Let them catch sight of a glimmer of teeth, and realize just what he was. Sometimes that ended a conversation

Sometimes, as with Imayoshi, he’d get a smile in return. “Oh, I see,” Imayoshi purred. “Is it better, then, to get the blood pumping beforehand?”

It was easy as a dream, leaving that place with Imayoshi on his arm, Imayoshi’s hands exploring in a way that might have been shocking were they not so obviously calculated to provoke a specific reaction. It was a short walk to Imayoshi’s apartment, tidier than Harasawa expected for someone his age.

Nothing happened that night that Harasawa imagined he would think much of later. It was enjoyable, certainly, more enjoyable than many such nights. He left sometime around dawn, rubbing a fleck of blood from the corner of his mouth, and slinging his jacket over his shoulder.

“I feel like I ought to offer you sunscreen,” Imayoshi joked, leaning in the door frame as Harasawa pulled on his shoes. He looked a little drawn, but no better or worse than anyone else.

Harasawa gave him a bit of a smile. “I promise you, I’ll be able to make it home without turning to ash.”

“I hope so. I wouldn’t mind seeing you again.”

“You should eat something,” Harasawa said, getting to his feet. “You’ll feel better.”

“I feel fine,” Imayoshi answered, and he did look quite pleased with himself.

It was nothing Harasawa thought he had to worry about. He cleaned up a little, went to work, and it was an unremarkable day. He had four more unremarkable days after that, found himself too busy to rely on much more than the blood packs he kept in a fridge (though it was never quite the same, reheated, and the pack was old and growing stale) and thought little about Imayoshi, except when he passed the bar on his way home. It was a route he walked every day, and so it was probably from that that the visitor who turned up on his doorstep a few days later had picked up his scent, and followed him home.

He was looking at the clock, wondering whether he had the time to go out and find a proper drink, or if he was stuck once more to the few things he kept in his never-used kitchen, grading papers as he had been stuck with extra classes again. His colleagues seemed that since he had no need of sleep, he didn’t require any rest, either.

It was early yet, by his standards, but he knew few people who would knock on his door at eight o’clock in the evening. Perhaps the elderly woman who lived next door, who either had not noticed that Harasawa had not aged in the nearly twenty years they had been neighbors, or considered it impolite to ask.

She asked for favors occasionally, which Harasawa was happy to oblige, though he expected that half her reason for asking was so that she could gossip to someone about the neighborhood. He had heard more stories than he would ever have any use for about neighbors he had never even spoken to.

It wasn’t her light, polite knock, though. It was more casual.

He was more than a little surprised to open his door and find that ensnaring smile again. “How did you--?” He had been about to ask how Imayoshi had found out where he lived, but too quickly he noticed the change in Imayoshi’s scent—it lacked the warmth of a pulse that Harasawa remembered.

Imayoshi seemed quite unbothered, standing on Harasawa’s doorstep in a t-shirt and jeans. “Perhaps you could let me in?” he asked. “I’ve walked quite a long way to get here, and I’d rather not chat here on the step.

Harasawa stepped back, eyes narrowing, and Imayoshi didn’t move.

“You have to invite me in, Harasawa-san, isn’t that how this works? Because believe me, I tried breaking into your home earlier, and it didn’t work out as planned.”

“You tried to what?”

“May I come in? I’d think you owe me that much, considering I would still be living and breathing if it weren’t for you.” He didn’t look in the slightest bit put out by his newfound situation.

Harasawa gazed at him a moment, and sighed. “Come inside.”

Imayoshi smiled and stepped over the threshold, looking around as Harasawa shut the door behind him. “Well, this is more boring than I expected.”

“I thought a Gothic castle and graveyard would stand out.” Harasawa looked him up and down, feeling not a small bit out of sorts. “What the hell happened?”

“I was rather hoping you could tell me,” Imayoshi replied. “Thought I was getting sick when none of my food tasted like anything and I couldn’t keep it down anyway. Then it all smelled repulsive to me but my roommate informed me it was fine and not going bad at all, so I figured it was just the nausea. Talked a friend into taking me to the doctor and was informed, quite matter-of-factly, that I appeared to be dying.”

Imayoshi noticed the drink Harasawa had made for himself. “Can we still drink then? I’m not sure what the point is, unless you can still get drunk.”

“Go back to the part where you were dying.”

“Oh, the doctor and nurses were all very upset with me. Metabolic rates of the average corpse, took them five minutes to find any kind of pulse and by the time they were done with me I basically didn’t have one at all. But I was still up, moving around, talking. They didn’t believe me when I insisted that I’d only had one encounter with a vampire in the last six months, wherein he only had enough to make me a little woozy. The way they looked at me you’d think I made my living offering up my arteries for consumption. Do you still get drunk? I’m not sure what the rules of consumption are. Is intoxication still a possibility? That seems dangerous.” Imayoshi was picking up the drink, sniffing it.

Harasawa took it from him, careful not to spill any. “And after that?”

“After my hospital visit? I went home, slept for two days, and woke up cold to the touch and painfully aware of the fact that my roommate had thrown up in the sink.” Imayoshi smiled. “Then I thought, maybe I’d better come see you.”

“God,” Harasawa muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You’ve turned.” That was bad. That was very bad.

“They tell me that’s the terminology.” Imayoshi dropped onto Harasawa’s sofa, not bothering to conceal his curiosity. “By all accounts, turning with so little blood taken is quite a rare occurrence.”

Harasawa stared at him. Imayoshi noticed, and smiled. “What’s wrong, Harasawa? You look like you might be ill, though I don’t know if you can vomit and if you can I’m sure it’d be a terrible sight.”

“I wasn’t intending on this happening.”

“I didn’t imagine you were. You seemed to be in pursuit of dinner and a good time. And if I had any doubts, how wide your eyes got when you realized what happened certainly cleared that up.” Imayoshi was having far too much fun with this, and it didn’t make Harasawa feel any better about it. He hadn’t turned anyone in—well, quite a long time. He’d been careful, he’d taken precautions.

“Don’t look that way, Harasawa-san, I may be dead, but it’s not like you’ll be attending my funeral.” He stood, wandering over to look at the books on Harasawa’s shelves.

“So why are you here?”

“Well, I have no idea how long it’s been since you were alive, but I’m rather hungry and I didn’t think my roommate would be a willing meal.”

Harasawa walked past him to the fridge, pulling out a blood pack. “Here.”

“Well. That’s rather more clinical than I expected.”

“It’s actually awful. I’ve been so busy I’ve been desensitized.”

Imayoshi inspected the bag. “You could be a salesman with how appealing you’re making it sound. Should I drink it cold?”

“Only if you want to discover first hand if you can still vomit.” Harasawa knocked back the last of his drink, trying to get his feet back under him.

Imayoshi emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later with one of Harasawa’s coffee mugs. “You’re right, this is terrible. I didn’t taste like this, did I?”

Harasawa rubbed his face again. “No.”

“Thank God. I’d have to be embarrassed.” Imayoshi sat once more on the sofa, cradling the cup in his hands. “Must be something about dead blood cells, for it to taste like this.”

“You have nothing to compare it to.”

“That’s true. Doesn’t make it a good first meal.” Imayoshi sipped, licking a smear of dark blood from his lips. Harasawa had to look away, refusing to let the sight affect him.

“So what are you going to do now?” Harasawa asked.

“Well I’m hardly equipped to just carry on like everything’s normal, am I?” Imayoshi stretched. “I thought I’d stay here a while.”

Harasawa looked at him. “Did you, now?”

“Well, aren’t you responsible for this plight I’m in?” Imayoshi tipped the mug up, draining the last of the blood. A line dribbled from the corner of his mouth, sluggish and almost black. Harasawa couldn’t help himself—he reached over and smudged it away, putting the finger to his mouth. Imayoshi watched the movement with interest, a rust red smear on his lip.

“I hope you aren’t going to stop there.”

Harasawa looked away. “I might be responsible for it but I’m not sure why that means I should let you stay in my house.” Hunger was starting to bother him, and he regretted not having gone looking for someone to spend the evening with. It was not too late, he supposed, to visit a woman who lived down the street—he had shared her company before, and she had enough interest in him to welcome his company again—but he didn’t imagine that Imayoshi would be shaken off quite so easily.

“How often do you have to drink?” Imayoshi asked, running a finger around the inside of the mug. “And how much?”

“Less than you will. It used to be a few cups every day.”

“And now?”

“Every three or four days.”

“Oh, it must be dinner time, then.” Imayoshi smiled. “I hope I didn’t interrupt.”

Harasawa was annoyed, now, though he was trying not show it. He stood, going to find his shoes and jacket. “I’m going out. You can stay here tonight if you like.”

“You’re not going to take me along?”

“No.”

“And what will I do alone here all night?” Imayoshi still had that bloody smear on his face that Harasawa couldn’t look at.

“I’m sure I don’t know.” Harasawa was fast growing tired of Imayoshi’s company. He had seemed much less irritating when Harasawa had thought he’d never see him again.

“And if I get hungry?”

“Be careful,” Harasawa said sharply. “Feed on someone too much or too often and…” he trailed off, pulling his coat on. Maybe he wouldn’t visit the woman down the street after all.

“We’ll have another little accident, I understand.”

Harasawa let the door fall shut behind him, glad just to have Imayoshi out of his sight. The thought that he was suddenly going to have a house guest grated on him. He had lived alone most of his life, with occasional decades spent with long-term partners, and he preferred it that way. He had as much contact with the outside world that he cared to have, and Imayoshi had landed in his life with all the grace of a meteor.

He would figure out something to get Imayoshi out of his house later, before he had too much chance to settle in. Until then, he had more pressing concerns.

#

Imayoshi’s arrival had so upset him that he couldn’t consider at all finding an unfamiliar face to follow home. He instead went to the house of an old acquaintance—he avoided calling her a friend only because they rarely spoke to each other outside of her home, if they chanced to cross paths. She lived a rather solitary life and thus he rarely interrupted her with his visits, some pressed by hunger and others simply by the desire for quiet company.

Given how unlucky he was feeling, he shouldn’t have been surprised when he found her already with company—a friend who peered at him suspiciously from over her shoulder.

She made some excuse to her friend and drew him back to what might charitably have been called her office. She rolled up the sleeve on her left arm and offered it to him, and in a few minutes he was out the door again, not really feeling any better for having eaten.

He was no more willing to return to his house quickly and so he walked, thinking too much about the work that wasn’t getting done, and the smug, smiling, newly-turned brat that was probably snooping around his house.

He was not by any means going to let Imayoshi live there, but he also wasn’t stupid enough to make him go back home unprepared.

He arrived home sometime around one in the morning with a bag full of blood packs, having walked the whole way.

Imayoshi was laid out on his sofa with another mug cradled in his hand, the smell of reheated blood faint but noticeable in the room. He was looking at the papers Harasawa had brought home to grade. “I didn’t mark you for a teacher,” Imayoshi commented, idly turning papers over. “How long have you been one?”

“Longer than I care to remember. I brought you something.”

Imayoshi glanced up with a smile. “Presents? Harasawa-san, you didn’t have to.”

Harasawa dropped the bag next to Imayoshi. “It should last you a couple weeks. Long enough for someone like you to find a few willing donors, I’m sure.”

“Is that what you call them? Donors?”

Harasawa didn’t answer. He was more than a little put out about being shoved out the door after a hurried and surreptitious meal. It had been a while since he felt so much like an unwanted guest. He sat as if he meant to get back to work, shuffling the papers as if Imayoshi had disturbed them, though if anything they looked neater than before. He was sharply aware of Imayoshi’s nearness and apparent disinterest in moving away.

Imayoshi brought the mug away from his mouth, a dark stain against his lips.

Harasawa knew he shouldn’t. Knew, in fact, that it would give Imayoshi all the more reason to stay. He knew that he was only inviting trouble if he encouraged Imayoshi.

He clasped a hand to the back of Imayoshi’s neck, pressing his mouth over Imayoshi’s. He was only barely aware of the sound Imayoshi made, his focus on the taste of blood on Imayoshi’s teeth. The mug clinked as Imayoshi unevenly set it on the table, his free hand twisting in the front of Harasawa’s shirt, pulling him down.

That was the one thing he’d never been able to get used to—how easy it was to give in. It amused him, sometimes, how the living painted his kind as master manipulators who exercised a supernatural control. As he had always known it, it was nothing more than base desires that drew people in, and base desires that were so much harder to deny after he was turned.

Imayoshi gave a yank and the shirt tore. Without quite thinking about it Harasawa snarled, shoving Imayoshi back against the sofa, pinning his arms at his sides. Imayoshi’s look of surprise was soon replaced with a sly grin. “My, my, Harasawa-sensei,” he purred.

“Don’t,” Harasawa hissed. Had he a heartbeat it would have jumped. He hated the thrill that ran through him at Imayoshi’s voice. It was too easy to give in, and Imayoshi, he got the feeling, had refined the art of making people want him.

“I hope you don’t mean to fuck me on your couch when your bed is just down the hall.”

Something about the calm suggestion brought Harasawa almost back to his senses. “You’ve ruined my shirt.”

“It can be replaced.” Imayoshi drew a finger along the rough edge of the tear. “That was a little surprising.”

The blood on his lips was smeared. Harasawa bent, kissing him again. He shouldn’t. He should tell Imayoshi he was welcome to the couch and take his grading with him and work until sunrise. He shouldn’t encourage whatever this was.

But even living he’d never been very good at doing what he should have done.

He hadn’t admitted a stranger to this part of his home in a very long time. Through the narrow door to the bedroom, he crushed Imayoshi against the wall, mouth at his throat, finding the place where he had bitten him that first time. Imayoshi had laughed, then, said, “A fan of the classics, are you?” Now Imayoshi only bared his throat, fingers sunk into Harasawa’s shoulders and hair.

With the living, one had to be careful. They were hurt so easily.

With one of his own, Harasawa needed far fewer precautions.

Imayoshi was laughing, dragging the shirt off of Harasawa, effectively tearing it in half. His teeth glinted when he smiled, the sharp edges catching Harasawa’s lips when he kissed him.

Harasawa envied him, a little. This hedonism was still fresh and new to him, still had the power to be overwhelming—and Harasawa meant to overwhelm him. He tore Imayoshi’s shirt off of him as if it were tissue paper, leaving it crumpled on the floor while he slid his hands under Imayoshi’s thighs, lifting him up, legs around Harasawa’s waist. They fell somewhere in the direction of the bed—Harasawa caught their fall on the edge of it, hauling their weight the last heave up onto the mattress, falling on his back with Imayoshi straddling his waist.

Imayoshi took advantage of the shift in positions, pressing his teeth to Harasawa’s throat in a way that was half-threat. A feeling like sparks danced across Harasawa’s skin, the closest thing he’d known to having his heart race since he’d become what he was. (He’d never quite gotten used to the words they used to describe people like them. They all seemed so inadequate.)

Imayoshi’s teeth broke skin. Harasawa tensed, his grip on Imayoshi’s shoulders tightening. He wouldn’t bleed, of course, but the sharp prick of pain brought him to focus. “Your mind is wandering, Sensei,” Imayoshi murmured, pressing a kiss to the bite so delicate it was almost obscene.

_“Don’t,”_ Harasawa hissed.

“Don’t what?” Imayoshi ran his tongue over the bite, moved on to the other side with kisses meant to distract.

“Don’t call me _that.”_ Harasawa slid his hand down the small of Imayoshi’s back, slipping under the waistband of his jeans. He regretted, in a way, that he hadn’t spent more time with Imayoshi when they had first met, when he was still warm to the touch, when Harasawa had felt every rise and fall in his pulse. But this—the coolness, the change in scent, the new edge to Imayoshi’s smile—that had its own power over him.

“What should I call you?” Imayoshi said, bringing his face close to Harasawa’s. They hadn’t turned on the lights but Harasawa could see him well enough, eyes glinting. “Should I call you Katsunori?”

Harasawa rolled, pinning Imayoshi underneath him. When Imayoshi smiled his teeth showed, cold and sharp and smeared with that dark, smooth red. “You haven’t earned it,” he said. Imayoshi was hard against his stomach, fingers tracing feather-light up and down Harasawa’s back, drawing all his awareness to his senses, out of his head and into his skin.

“What are you like, I wonder,” Imayoshi murmured, “when you let go of your self-control?”

Harasawa shoved Imayoshi up the bed, roughly helping him out of the last of his clothes and tossing them somewhere on the floor. Imayoshi reached for Harasawa’s belt and Harasawa caught his wrists, pulling his hands up. He pressed his mouth to the inside of Imayoshi’s wrist, where his pulse had used to thrum, tracing the arc of the old vein with his tongue. It was a shame that Imayoshi had been turned so quickly—a shame he couldn’t have felt that thumping pulse under his mouth once more.

He wouldn’t make the mistake of going too quickly again. He worked his way down Imayoshi’s chest and stomach, all kisses and half-threatening scraping teeth. Imayoshi ran his fingers through Harasawa’s hair, admiring the view. Harasawa ran a hand along the inside of Imayoshi’s thigh, bent to press a kiss. Imayoshi’s hand tightened in his hair, and Harasawa bit. Imayoshi sat upright, sucking in a breath, his fingers curled into a fist. Harasawa released the bite, running his tongue over the break in the skin. It was shallow, it’d be healed by morning.

Imayoshi let out a low laugh, his grip relaxing. “Ah—I wasn’t expecting that.” He smoothed Harasawa’s hair as Harasawa continued his attention to Imayoshi’s thighs, kisses and teeth, each bite angled to have lights dancing behind Imayoshi’s eyes, and what blood he had in his system rising to the skin, flushing around the bites like a brilliant bruise, until Harasawa moved up once more, swallowing his cock.

For the second time that evening he had the satisfaction of Imayoshi’s surprised breath. Imayoshi’s fingers found their way to Harasawa’s hair again, twisting a handful, pulling harder than was strictly polite.

There was no artistry to it, and Harasawa didn’t care. He moved quickly, sloppily, a palm pressed over the deepest bite on Imayoshi’s thigh, squeezing at points just to feel Imayoshi’s legs tense in response, his knees crooked over Harasawa’s shoulders, heels pressed against his back. He came with a sigh, giving Harasawa’s hair a final yank that made his head ache.

As he relaxed Harasawa moved up the length of his body, kissing along his throat again, cradling a hand under his jaw. Imayoshi moved his hands down, working at the buckle of his belt, grasping his cock. “Why don’t you _fuck_ me Harasawa-san?”

“Why don’t you have a little _patience,”_ Harasawa replied, grasping Imayoshi’s hips and pulling them toward him. “You’re the guest, here, after all.”

“And a host should be more attentive to his guest’s needs.”

Harasawa reached past Imayoshi’s head to the nightstand, finding the bottle that fit into the palm of his hand. Imayoshi snatched it from his grasp and pushed Harasawa over, straddling his lap. He winced only a little, shifting his weight onto his bitten thighs. Harasawa tucked an arm behind his head, watching as Imayoshi readied himself, lazily palming his cock.

Imayoshi wrapped his hand around Harasawa’s cock, waiting for a nod before sinking down. Harasawa settled both hands on Imayoshi’s hips, squeezing, digging his thumbs into the hollows. He sat up, because his neck—God, that neck, it was half of what had attracted Harasawa in the first place—gave him just the perfect place to put his teeth.

“You already did the job, Harasawa-san,” Imayoshi said, mouth at his ear. “Unless of course you just enjoy sinking your teeth in?”

“You talk too much,” Harasawa answered.

Imayoshi chuckled, his fingers twining in Harasawa’s hair. “Maybe, but I’m not the only one with a pretty neck.”

This bite was not as shallow as the first, and for a moment all Harasawa could do was choke and stare over Imayoshi’s shoulder, aware only of the teeth in his throat and the soft brush of Imayoshi’s hair against his cheek.

Imayoshi pushed him back against the headboard, to get a better angle for riding him, resting his hands on Harasawa’s shoulders and making smaller bites around his neck, on his chest and shoulders. Harasawa settled his hands on Imayoshi’s ass. His legs were restricted by his slacks, which Imayoshi had only pulled down far enough to gain access to his cock. Imayoshi lifted his head from Harasawa’s chest, digging his teeth into the bite on his neck once more, rolling his hips over Harasawa’s.

Harasawa was caught by surprise, he spit out some obscenity, going slack under Imayoshi.

Imayoshi surfaced in his vision with a smile, pressing a light little kiss to Harasawa’s mouth. “Thank you for letting me stay the night, Harasawa-san.”

He was in trouble. Harasawa closed his eyes a moment, drawing in a breath. He would live to regret this, but for now, he was very tired.

He didn’t sleep, exactly—he never did, anymore—but he rested until clock reminded him that he had obligations. He showered, able to gauge that the bite on his neck had not fully healed, and if the gentle pressure of his fingers was any indication, he would have to keep the top button buttoned if he wanted to avoid sly remarks. Even then, the false bruise might be visible.

Imayoshi was nowhere to be seen, though Harasawa couldn’t say what that meant. Perhaps he had gotten what he wanted, and left. (Harasawa suspected that would be wishful thinking.) He found a shirt that was clean and ironed, and buttoned it to the top, adjusting his tie to the collar. The savvier of his colleagues would likely notice no matter what he did, but he was not about to advertise the liaison.

The morning passed like any other, except for the way the other teachers quietly took note of how he had dressed more stiffly than usual, and he suspected from the polite silences that the buttoned collar had done little to disguise the bite. He couldn’t decide if he was grateful that he couldn’t see his own reflection, or if he regretted it.

He had no classes that afternoon, which was a blessing, as the more strained silences he encountered the more muddled his head got, remembering that he didn’t know if Imayoshi would come back—whether he even wanted Imayoshi to come back. He was angry at himself, too, for wondering, when he should have been glad to have found Imayoshi gone when he woke. He hadn’t _wanted_ Imayoshi there in the first place.

He walked home, with the hope of clearing his head. He had work that needed doing, and it was better if he put—whatever had happened with Imayoshi—behind him as soon as possible. Imayoshi didn’t strike him as reckless, it wasn’t as if he had loosed a public threat.

He was about to put the key in his front door when he paused, catching the scent of sunscreen and stale blood. “You know,” he said as he opened the door, “you may have been invited in once, but it’s still considered rude to break into someone’s home.”

Imayoshi was sat at the tiny kitchen table, a textbook occupying half the space and a notebook the other. “It was quieter here,” Imayoshi said, not looking up. “And my roommate took very poorly to finding a bag of blood in our shared fridge, so I thought it better to bring them back here.”

“Are you going to start paying me rent?” Harasawa asked, going past him to peer into the fridge, confirming the return of the blood packs.

“I didn’t say anything about staying, Harasawa-san.”

Harasawa didn’t answer. He couldn’t look at Imayoshi now, embarrassed. He reached into the cabinet, finding the nearest bottle and pouring a glass.

“It’s one in the afternoon,” Imayoshi said.

“Distinctions like that mean quite a bit less when you haven’t slept in a hundred and fifty years.”

“Is that how long you’ve been a vampire?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“So you’re older than that.” Imayoshi had his elbows on the notebook, watching Harasawa with interest. “You keep so few things around I had a hard time guessing your age, the other day.”

“What did you think you would find? An original Hokusai?”

“Why, did you have one?”

Harasawa downed his drink, put his hands on the counter. “You want to know how old I am?”

Imayoshi tapped the eraser end of his pencil against his textbook. “That is what I was hoping to find out.”

“Well, I’d love to give you an exact number, but birth records were not very well kept when I was born.” Harasawa poured another glass. “But if you’d like a rough estimate, I was turned sometime after 1500.”

Imayoshi stared at him, and for a moment Harasawa supposed he was well and truly surprised. “Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately.” Most everyone he’d known then was long dead, with a few possible exceptions, but he hadn’t seen them in a very, very long time. “It’s not something I care to dwell on.”

“I didn’t think most made it that long.”

“They don’t.” Harasawa sipped at the second drink. Drunkenness was unlikely, but not impossible. “They get reckless, and they get themselves killed.” He’d been careful, he’d always been careful. It was the only thing that had kept him alive. “That’s why I was so surprised to see you… like this. You realize, don’t you, that you could charge me with homicide for turning?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Most people don’t see it that way.”

“It wasn’t as if you intended to.”

“Manslaughter, then.” Harasawa put the glass down. “By all means, don’t do my lawyer’s work for them.”

Imayoshi looked annoyed. “Don’t expect me to be dragging you to court. It’d be an embarrassment for everyone involved.” He shifted uncomfortably, and Harasawa glanced at him.

“Are you alright?”

“Walking has been a rather interesting endeavor today,” Imayoshi said lightly, “Considering the bites.”

Harasawa was exceedingly grateful he didn’t have enough blood in his system to mimic a blush. “They haven’t healed yet?”

“Oh, most of them are closed, but it’s not especially comfortable.” Imayoshi sat back in his chair, and grinned. “And how about you? Draw any comments about that collar?”

Harasawa loosened his tie. “I don’t even know how bad it is.”

“Well it’s less purple than it was when I left this morning.” Imayoshi stood, coming over to unbutton the top two buttons on Harasawa’s shirt, pressing a little kiss at the base of his throat. Harasawa drew in a shaky breath, leaning back on the counter.

He shouldn’t. He should tell Imayoshi to go home, that he would be able to figure out. Instead, he kissed Imayoshi back. “Do you want to stay?”

“That depends, Harasawa. Do you want me to?”

No. Yes. Maybe.

He sighed, glanced away. Imayoshi didn’t move, his hands on the counter on either side of Harasawa.

“For now.”

Imayoshi smiled a little, pressed a kiss to the still-tender bite. “That’s not much of an answer, Harasawa-san, I should be offended.”

Harasawa glanced at him and smiled. “Don’t you still have your roommate to deal with?”

“He’ll find someone to replace me, easily enough. I think he wants his girlfriend to move in, besides.” Imayoshi ran a finger down the line of buttons. “Besides, it’s hardly right to leave a newly turned vampire on their own. Would you just abandon me like that, Harasawa?”

“Shut up,” Harasawa muttered, leaning in to kiss him again. “You talk too much.”

“You said that before.”

“And I was right.” Harasawa pulled back. “You ate recently?”

“Yes.”

“Right. I’ll see about introducing you to some possible donors… though it’s more difficult when you’re new. They don’t trust you as much.”

“Sounds like you’re well acquainted with the process.”

Harasawa shifted. “Well. I prefer not to drink out of a plastic bag.” He smiled a little. “But for now, I have work to do.”

“I meant to ask you about that,” Imayoshi said. “Of all the things you could do with your time, you’re teaching high school chemistry?”

Harasawa looked up at the ceiling, reminded of when his students realized that the “rumors” about him were more fact than fiction. There was always a day, usually two or three weeks into the beginning of the year. _You know the chemistry teacher is a vampire, right? I’m serious, he keeps blood in his desk._ “When I first began to learn about chemistry,” Harasawa said slowly, “they were still calling it _alchemy.”_ He shook his head. “I’ve been doing it so long, I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“That’s quite the rut, Harasawa-san.” Imayoshi stepped a little to the side, resting his arms on the counter. “How have you lived this long without dying from boredom?”

“I’m stubborn,” Harasawa replied, pushing away from the counter.

“Are you sure your work can’t wait?” Imayoshi smiled at him over his shoulder.

Harasawa paused halfway to the door, glancing at Imayoshi. He was using that smile again, the one that made someone believe they were the only person he ever gave that smile to, the smile he’d used when they’d met.

A smile worth sinking his teeth in.

“You’re going to get me fired,” Harasawa said as Imayoshi rose up to him, plucking at the buttons of his shirt one by one.

“I’m sure a chemist as experienced as yourself can always find new work.” Imayoshi tugged lightly on the front of his shirt, smiling. “You should be more open to change, Harasawa-san.”

“You, I think, are a little too open to change.”

“Just because this doesn’t bother me?”

“Exactly because it doesn’t bother you.”

“Well, some of us don’t have five centuries to look back on, yet.” Imayoshi tugged on the front of Harasawa’s belt. “And that means there are some things you can teach me, Harasawa-san. Why don’t we get started?”


End file.
